


The Bonds from London

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Competency Kink, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I should sleep on the couch,” Bond murmured.</p><p>“Don’t be a bloody idiot,” Q snorted unattractively. Bond, amused, filed away this propensity for sleepy swearing as something to remember. “What is it? That’s a text alert, not a perimeter alarm. Nightmare, then? Damn you double-ohs and your issues, I swear to god.” He lifted his arm in invitation.</p><p>“Q, I don’t think —”</p><p>“The window’s open and I’m cold,” Q insisted.</p><p>Bond sat on the edge of the bed and finished the last finger of his drink with a quick swallow. He had no idea if Q was hinting that they needed to keep up their pretense due to the open window, or if he really was just cold. Either way, Bond wasn’t a man to deny himself what small pleasures he could take from this wretched life, so he slid under the covers and tugged Q on top of him until their legs were tangled and Q’s head rested on his shoulder.</p><p>But as Q dropped back into sleep, Bond stayed awake, correcting himself. Having everything he wanted, in his grasp and completely out of reach, wasn’t a small pleasure at all. It was torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bonds from London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tea_for_lupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_for_lupin/gifts).



> For [TeaforLupin](http://teaforlupin.tumblr.com/), who is a delight. Thank you so much, darling, and I hope you enjoy the fic... even if it is a little different from the usual fake married trope :D
> 
> Special thanks to [zooeyscigar](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com) for the beta. You're the actual best, handsome <3

“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” Bond said, quiet and thoughtful as he squinted at the approaching truck.

“Agree is a strong word,” Q countered. He shifted uncomfortably under the bright glare of the evening sun and took a step closer to, and just behind, Bond. It made the hair prickle on the back of Bond’s neck, but he willed his fists not to clench and waited for the moment to pass. Q was not a threat; he was merely maintaining proximity to ensure their surveillance suppressor worked. Good. Bond couldn’t see observers, but he knew damn well they were being watched.

“What do you mean?” Bond asked, letting his hands loosen and his shoulders relax.

“Tanner decided that a gay couple — a British one, no less — would be what Bishop considered a ‘trophy catch’ and insisted I play along,” Q shrugged. He kept his mouth close to Bond’s neck to prevent anyone from reading his lips. Bond’s discomfort quickly morphed into a low, simmering arousal, and he gave into a lascivious grin he hope someone important could see.

“A token bit of diversity to round out his perfect little society of sociopaths,” Bond agreed. “But let’s be clear. Not gay.”

“Hmm?”

Bond turned and wrapped Q in his arms, bending his head and letting their lips brush. Affection was to be expected, Bond reasoned, even between a couple that, according to their fake marriage certificate, had been together for ten years. To his credit, Q didn’t stiffen or act surprised, and Bond wondered just what his briefing entailed.

“Being a gay couple would mean that we’re homosexuals.” Q’s sweater was soft under Bond’s hands and his lips were dry and chapped. A not so small part of Bond hoped Q would lick them. What an invitation that would be, and with the pretense of establishing their relationship in front of the entire neighborhood, too. “Queer, yes. Male couple, sure. Personally, I prefer to avoid being called a couple of any sort. How about we just stick to referring to each other as ‘partner’?”

“Are you pulling my leg?” Q asked, widened eyes the only hint of his surprise.

Bond smirked a little and turned Q around to see the moving van that was now parking in their disgustingly suburban driveway. He pressed himself all along Q’s back, then nibbled on his ear before continuing in a whisper.

“Do you think any of the double-ohs would survive if we weren’t sexually flexible?” Bond replied. “On the contrary, it’s a long, proud tradition of British Intelligence, moving us up the ranks.”

“How do you mean?” Q demanded.

“You the Bonds, from London?” the driver asked, eying them with barely concealed disgust. “Welcome to the North Carolina. Little bit of advice. Metro Charlotte may be the city of the new south, but some folks don’t take to kindly to public displays of affection from the likes of you.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Bond pulled away from Q and gave him a bitter smile, not caring whether Q though it was from the movers or their conversation. If Q wasn’t aware of MI6’s former (but still recent) fondness for blackmailing queers into spy work, Bond wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

Moving furniture was more stressful than Bond had anticipated. He’d spent all of ten minutes in the house so far, checking exits, scanning for surveillance, picking out his (their) bedroom, and already his brain had cataloged the space as his. The movers were strong, efficient, and quiet, and Bond found it unnerving. Six men carrying heavy objects and boxes should be much louder than this, and if more than one or two of them turned out to be adversaries, even Bond would have a hell of time fighting them off. On top of that, Q seemed utterly disinterested in staying where Bond could see him, exploring the house like a curious cat, and for fuck’s sake, he was the quartermaster. Didn’t he have any sense of self-preservation? How hard would it be to stay in sight until the movers left and Bond could secure the house?

“How ridiculous is this place?” Q murmured as he sat at their new oak dining room table after the movers finally left. The table was big enough to seat at least eight without the centre leaf being pulled out, but it didn’t feel as empty as it might have otherwise with several moving boxes stacked on the surface. Q wasn’t poking at them, though. He was glaring down at the little tablet in his palm. “We have three stories, five bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, a study, a dining room, a living room, a fireplace, a deck, a patio, and almost 5,000 square feet. America is… wow.”

“First time?” Bond asked, suddenly curious. “How did you get here? I thought you hated flying.”

“I do,” Q said, smile sharp. “But what’s a little light sedation between continents when one is offered the opportunity to hack the colonies from within?”

“Hack the colonies?” Bond shook his head and started unstacking the boxes.

“I know it’s not exactly within the parameters of our mission as such,” Q shrugged, tapping his screen with a little smile, “but I didn’t expect you’d have any objections.”

“Of course not,” Bond said. He reached for his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a knife. A quick flick of his wrist unfolded the blade, and he carefully slipped it through the the taped seam of the box. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your job.”

“Oh please,” Q huffed. He set the tablet down and looked up. His gaze lingered on the knife as he pulled his legs up on the chair and rested his chin on his knees. He glanced at the curtained windows and then back to Bond’s hands. “ Don’t think I don’t know what I’m actually doing here.”

“You collapsed in the middle of a debriefing,” Bond pointed out.

Q glared.

“I sympathize,” Bond offered. “And empathize. Workaholic to workaholic. Months of work rebuilding after the destruction of headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, only to have to tear it down and start from scratch when we discovered Spectre’s dirty fingerprints all over the systems you’d inherited and patched endlessly…”

The sudden tension in Q’s shoulders was almost imperceptible under the heavy knit of his rust coloured sweater.

“You did good, Q,” Bond soothed. “And in admirably short amount of time. More importantly, you’re still working.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised by Tanner’s acumen for manipulation,” Q huffed, “but he couldn’t have done better, could he?”

“A lab’s worth of equipment and supplies for tinkering to your heart’s content? An open license to explore American electronic infrastructure from within as you see fit? An actual mission that may seem easy to you, but does actually require a hacker of your caliber? Undercover work that doesn’t require much actual field work?”

“He even found someone to watch my cats.”

“Indeed.” Bond chuckled. “How do you feel about American pizza for dinner?”

“I’m a gluten-free vegan.”

“Thai it is.”

~~~

It took Bond an hour to sweep and secure the house to his satisfaction. Q followed closely, watching, evaluating and implementing his own security. Every door and window that Bond tested, Q wired, then did something on his tablet that Bond could only assume was activation on a network. Every place Bond checked for bugs, Q planted his own surveillance. Every place Bond hid a gun or a knife, Q slipped a burner phone and a variety of devices that Bond could only occasionally identify. It made him feel better, watching Q ply his trade, quiet, competent.

“What does Bishop think you’ll be doing for him?” Q asked when they were finished.

Bond didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“And me?”

“I’ve told him nothing,” Bond said.

“That puts me in a rather awkward position,” Q pointed out.

The doorbell rang, a long, melodic noise, and both men shared a look of casual disbelief. Bond took a step towards the door, but Q stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Here,” he said. His long, cold, clever fingers brushed the shell of Bond’s ear, and Bond fought a shiver as Q slipped an earbud in place.

“I don’t think the delivery boy is going to attack and separate us,” Bond pointed out, more as a distraction for himself from Q’s proximity than an actual valid observation.

“Please,” Q huffed, stepping back. “You say that as if I’m not intimately familiar with what double-ohs get up to in the field.”

“Intimately?” Bond couldn’t help but ask.

Q hummed and dragged a hand down Bond’s arm.

“The curtains are drawn,” Bond pointed out. “No need for that.”

“Of course not,” Q agreed easily. But his hand lingered until Bond took a purposeful step away.

Bond’s shoes echoed in the foyer as he strode from the dining room to the front door. Without paintings or rugs to suppress the sound, his footsteps echoed through the two-story high entryway and made him grimace. For all its resplendence, the house felt cold to him, a mockery of what a home should be. It reminded him of Skyfall, with dark, expensive wood in place of stone. The front door was almost twice the size of a normal door — well, normal by London standards — and Bond found himself actually using some strength to pull it open. He couldn’t decide if that was a tactical advantage or not.

“Forty two seventeen,” the bored-looking delivery boy said.

“Whoah there, fella,” someone called from to their left. “Forty bucks for delivery? You guys get a couple appetizers each or somethin’?”

Bond gave the kid a fifty in exchange for the two large paper bags that held his food, and turned to look at the figure who had just jogged across the street to catch him. “You must be Mr. Bishop?”

“You got it,” the man laughed, watching as the kid bounced down the steps quickly without even so much as an offer to make change. “Musta been a long flight from London with nothing but airline food to get ya through. Here.” He brandished an ornate bottle of amber liquid. “To help ease the pain.”

Bond could feel Q moving behind him and hear the thump of boxes hitting the floor. There wasn’t anything in the house that needed to be hidden — they hadn’t bothered with anything that could give away their status as MI6 agents — so Bond could only assume Q was signaling his awareness and readiness for their unexpected guest.

“Thank you,” Bond said, giving Bishop a smile. He pulled the door open wide and gestured to the empty hallway. “Please.”

Bishop wasn’t a large man, but there was something deceptively disarming in his body language. If Bond didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have thought much of the way Bishop held himself, planted his feet, kept his movements loose but controlled.

Huh. Ex-military, and not just a grunt. Well trained, and well practised. In a long file that described how Bishop planned and orchestrated acts of theft, assassinations, destabilization, and terrorism all over the globe, nowhere was it mentioned that Bishop was in the service. Bond would have to have Q do some better digging.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught us not at our best,” Q was saying as he stood by the newly-cleared table, watching Bishop approach. Bond took in Q’s barefeet, his comfy jeans, his tired slouch under that ridiculous sweater, and was struck with a sudden overwhelming gratefulness that Tanner had chosen Q for this role rather than, say, 006. Alec’s training, his suspicion, his sidearms would have been spotted by a man like Bishop right away. Assassins made good occasional bedfellows but rarely good romantic partners. Bishop would have been suspicious and wary of Alec and, by association, Bond. But Q looked and acted completely disarming, and it set Bishop at ease.

“I’d say sorry, but I’m really not,” Bishop said with a shrug. “You’re cutting it close. The job starts the day after tomorrow. Think you’ll be settled and well-rested enough to perform by then?”

Q tried to hide his snicker behind his sweater-obscured knuckles, but it didn’t work. Bishop pretended not to catch the double entendre, but Bond could see the faint blush that stained his ruddy cheeks.

“I assure you, Mr. Bishop,” Bond said dryly, “you needn’t concern yourself.”

“I hope the spring rolls have actual rice noodles instead of vermicelli,” Q said as he walked around the table to Bond. This time when Q stood close behind him, Bond felt nothing but fierce joy that Q had placed Bond’s stronger frame between him and Bishop. “Remember what happened in Athens?”

“Don’t worry, love, I checked before I ordered.”

“You’re a dear,” Q said with a smile Bond didn’t see but could hear in his voice. Q’s mouth brushed ever so lightly over Bond’s cheek before he took the bags and set them on the table.

“Well,” Bishop said, clearing his throat. “I’ve gotta admit, I had reservations about a couple of gay boys being right for my crew, but —”

“Queer,” Q corrected.

“Huh,” Bishop replied in a tone that suggested that he was used to neither being interrupted nor corrected.

“And I assure you,” Q continued, his warm voice laced with menace, “one’s preference for who they fuck, and how, has absolutely no bearing on their masculinity. Nor their ability to end another man’s life.”

Bishop’s grin was a slow and dangerous thing.

“Delighted to hear that.”

“Excessive appetizer order aside, I’m afraid there’s not enough of the entree for all three of us,” Bond cut in. “And my better half is quite right. We’re not at our best. Perhaps your interrogation can wait for another time?”

Q’s hand on the small of his back, slipped between Bond’s jacket and his shirt without impeding access to his side arm, was warm and grounding. More reassuring than another gun, even — and wasn’t that a hell of a thought?

“Of course,” Bishop drawled. “Though I wouldn’t call it an interrogation. Just a meet n’ greet. I’ve already hired you after the most thorough background check imaginable. Why don’t you join the crew and I in the community building for a briefing tomorrow at breakfast? Let’s say, seven am? We’re all leavin’ the missuses at home.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that,” Q said.

“I didn’t expect to like you,” Bishop chuckled, giving Q a sharp, cheerful look. “And yet.”

“Good night, Mr. Bishop,” Bond sighed.

Bishop set the bottle of Crown Royal on the table. “Good night.”

~~~

Bond stood at the foot of the bed, stomach churning. His exhaustion was an all-consuming thing, but as inviting as the soft bed and high thread count sheets looked in the moonlight, Bond couldn’t bring himself to settle in.

This room, and this room alone, felt welcoming and somehow right. Whether it was due to the generous bed, or the mess of wires and tools and circuitry on the workbench on Q’s side of the room, or the gun in Bond’s own bedside drawer, or Q himself being curled in the bed, Bond didn’t know.

The whiskey Bishop had brought was warm on his tongue and in his belly. It wasn’t the best he’d ever had, but the smoky burn felt good and weirdly appropriate for his present circumstance. Cicadas screamed in the distance, the wind rustled through ancient pine trees sprinkled throughout the development, and Q’s hair was a dark, inviting splash on the white pillow underneath him.

He didn’t consider himself an introspective man, but there was no denying the surge of want that struck his throat closed. This was it, all he’d ever craved once the first thought of being done with this life had tickled the back of his mind. He’d tried, god had he tried, to have love and home and warmth, and each time the possibility had been ripped away from him by the then-invisible hand of Oberhauser. Despite Bond’s utter lack of belief in any higher power, he’d taken it as a sign that he wasn’t meant to have such things. He’d slashed a red wound across the world with his anger and loneliness, and in destroying the happiness of so many others he’d forfeited his own right to it.

Or so he thought.

But, as it turned out, it wasn’t fate or karma or any balancing of the universe that torn away pieces of Bond’s soul again and again. It was petty hatred, fueled by intelligence and power, that haunted his every step. And now he was free of it.

Q made a soft, warbly noise in his sleep, and Bond hid a chuckle behind his tumbler. The clock on Bond’s nightstand clicked over to 10:56pm, and a bit of quick mental math converted that to 3:56am at home. Q wasn’t likely to wake, and Bond could look.

For once, Bond let himself have it. Want. It felt good, human, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to experience since Vesper. He wanted to crawl into bed and wrap himself around Q. He wanted the slow, simmering attraction he’d felt since their introduction — sparked by Q’s body, fueled by his loyalty, intelligence, and awkward wit — ignite into kisses and hands on skin. He wanted to watch Q kneel over him, smile wicked and promising. He wanted to lay, sated, sweaty, and naked, in the warm breeze of their cracked bedroom window and face tomorrow with a sense of wonder and anticipation instead of certainty and dread that Q would be — what had Oberhauser described? — just another passing face on the way to the grave.

Something chimed and buzzed on the workbench, and Q woke with a start.

“Fuck, you’re scary,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering with sleep as he stared at Bond. “Quit looming like an ogre. Come to bed.”

“I should sleep on the couch,” Bond murmured.

“Don’t be a bloody idiot,” Q snorted unattractively. Bond, amused, filed away this propensity for sleepy swearing as something to remember. “What is it? That’s a text alert, not a perimeter alarm. Nightmare, then? Damn you double-ohs and your issues, I swear to god.” He lifted his arm in invitation.

“Q, I don’t think —”

“The window’s open and I’m cold,” Q insisted.

Bond sat on the edge of the bed and finished the last finger of his drink with a quick swallow. He had no idea if Q was hinting that they needed to keep up their pretense due to the open window, or if he really was just cold. Either way, Bond wasn’t a man to deny himself what small pleasures he could take from this wretched life, so he slid under the covers and tugged Q on top of him until their legs were tangled and Q’s head rested on his shoulder.

But as Q dropped back into sleep, Bond stayed awake, correcting himself. Having everything he wanted, in his grasp and completely out of reach, wasn’t a small pleasure at all. It was torture.

~~~

“Hey, there’s the new guy!”

The heads of over a dozen people turned to face Bond, and even long years of practice couldn’t keep him from rolling his shoulders in discomfort. Q’s rundown on the makeup of Bishop’s little gang wasn’t reassuring. Bishop didn’t skimp or compromise on who he hired — there were at least three people staring at him who were as deadly as Bond himself, and a couple more who would be difficult to beat in a fight. If they all went after him at the same time…

A trickle of sweat slipped between Bond’s skin and his shoulder harness.

“Gang, meet James Bond,” Bishop said, clapping his hands together. “He’s Jason’s replacement, God rest his soul.”

A murmur of agreement went around the room, and Bond wondered if the second half of that sentence was meant for Jason or himself.

“Have a seat,” Bishop encouraged, waving at the handful of round tables that filled the room. “Wherever you fit. We don’t stand on formality here.”

It didn’t matter where he sat, Bond realized; his back would be to someone who could kill him in seconds.

“I know,” a woman to Bond’s left said. She was short, red-haired, and incredibly thin. Nothing about her looked fragile, though, and he realized this was probably Amalia Smith, Bishop’s cat burglar. The lithe muscles under her skin flexed as she waved at the empty seat across from her, and he sat with a frown. “It can be overwhelming, but you’ll get used to it.”

“No you won’t,” the man next to her said. He was white haired, black skinned, and eighty years old if he was a day. He reached across the table. “Toba.”

“James,” Bond replied, shaking the offered hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Demolitions expert,” Amalia said, pointing at Toba. “Thief,” she said gesturing at her chest. She pointed at Bond. “Killer?”

“I prefer assassin,” Bond said with a smirk.

Toba snorted. “‘Course you do.”

“The bitchy looking Israeli over there is your counterpart, Avivit,” Amalia continued, pointing out various members of the team as she went around the room. “Max and Shel are our resident sociopaths — charming actors, both of ‘em, invaluable when you’re stuck in a brig that’s impossible of break out of.”

“Not that you know from experience or anything,” Toba chuckled.

“Richardson is the pilot, Sylvia is the engineer, Hartman is the hacker. Micah is…”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Toba offered.

“Gamemaker,” Amalia finished.

“Your nerd is showing,” Bishop laughed as he wandered over. He’d been speaking with Michah, an ordinary looking young man with short, spiky hair, a sharp nose, and the darkest eyes Bond had ever seen. As unremarkable as his plaid shirt, worn jeans, and casual shrug tried to make him seem, however, Bond felt a shiver of discomfort trying to break free. Micah met Bond’s eyes then deliberately turned his back to him to lean over Avivit and whisper in her ear.

“You say that like I give a fuck,” Amalia shrugged. She licked her lips and gave Bond a smirk.

“Don’t bother, he’s taken. I met his husband, Quentin, earlier. Nice guy.”

“He won’t last long, then,” Toba said.

“The good ones are always gay,” Amalia sighed.

“Pretty sure Max is gay, and the last thing I’d call him is good,” Toba pointed out.

“Jesus,” Bishop sighed. He gave Bond a long-suffering look. “A few too many percussion concussions, I think.”

“That’s not actually a thing,” Amalia pointed out.

Bishop rolled his eyes and walked away.

~~~

“I don’t need hand-to-hand combat lessons,” Q insisted, cranky and bleary-eyed. “Though if you don’t run to the nearest shop and pick me up some almond milk for my morning tea, I may give you a demonstration of my skills anyway.”

Bond finished his warming stretches and gave Q a look. “For the purposes of this mission, Q, you are my spouse. The beloved partner of an internationally hated and hunted hired gun. And if you think for one moment that I wouldn’t, every single day, ask you to practice escaping and surviving a well-coordinated attack, you’re very much mistaken.”

“James,” Q sighed. He got up from the table, wandered into the kitchen, and started digging around the cupboards that had been stocked thanks to a grocery delivery service.

“Bishop’s little Expendables-inspired crew is every bit as nasty as they seem on paper,” Bond said.

Q meandered back into the dining room and flopped back into one of hard chairs, a box of Rice Chex in his hands. When he started eating it dry by the handful, Bond groaned.

“Milk,” Q repeated.

“You know it’s after one in the afternoon in London,” Bond pointed out.

“And you know that the work of MI6’s quartermaster isn’t exactly a nine to five sort of job,” Q countered.

The futility of any further attempt at conversation sank in and Bond sighed again. He got up and dug around the cupboards for a few moments before finding a handful of useful ingredients. He walked back into the dining room, took the cereal box from a startled-looking Q, and held up his hand. “Ten minutes.” He pointed at the mats he’d unrolled in the massive, unwelcoming living room. “Go.”

Q, rather than looking murderous, looked thoughtful. It was enough to make Bond’s skin tingle, but he ignored it in favor of busying himself with re-hydrating mushrooms, opening a can of coconut milk, and chopping onions while Q stretched and warmed up on the mats. Someone at MI6 must have been paying attention because there was a small stock of gluten-free flours in one of the cupboards, and once the vegetables were simmering with a sprinkling of garlic powder and salt, Bond mixed up the gluten free quick oats with some of the coconut milk and a bit of oil, then heated a frying pan.

Ten minutes later, Q was staring wide-eyed at the mushroom and onion-stuffed crepe in front him while a generous mug of milky earl grey steamed at his right hand.

“What…” Q stopped, shook his head, and grabbed his fork. “You’re a genius.”

“Resourceful,” Bond corrected, and smiled as Q laughed. “Look, the people I just met? Even I would have trouble taking them out, Q. You set us up as the kind who don’t play well with others. Having just met them, there is no way I wouldn’t start immediately teaching you every single dirty trick I knew.”

“Fine,” Q mumbled, mouth already full of crepes and mushrooms.

After breakfast, Bond gave Q a few minutes to digest, then tossed a collapsable baton at him.

“Hit me,” he challenged.

Theoretically, all agents of MI6 were required to undergo regular intense physical training and conditioning, including weapons training. Realistically, however, once agents were tracked away from fieldwork, they could get away with just staying relatively fit. Bond made it a habit to never underestimate people, but when Q stripped down to his undershirt, revealing a lithe, lean, muscled body underneath, Bond blinked away his surprise.

“What?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow.

“If you say pilates…” Bond warned.

Q bounced in place a couple times, switching his feet back and forth with effortless grace as he squared up in front of Bond, the baton tucked under his arm. “Capoeira, actually.”

Bond was quiet for a long beat, desperately trying not to picture Q’s body contorted in the martial-art-hidden-in-dance that he remembered of capoeira.

“Only marginally better,” he managed. Q’s lips quirked, and Bond knew he didn’t buy his bullshit for a minute.

Half an hour later, they were both laying on the mats, panting, bruised, and grinning like idiots. Q was pretty damn quick, and his hand-eye coordination was stellar. He pulled his punches and kicks, though, and Bond couldn’t figure out how to break him out of it.

“Don’t worry,” Q huffed, his arm wrapped around his middle. He winced and rolled onto his side, eyes bright and skin flushed. “I wouldn’t hesitate when it mattered.”

“You’ve trained yourself out of striking forcefully,” Bond pointed out. He turned his head to meet Q’s gaze. “It’s muscle memory, not intention, that wins a fight.”

Q’s gazed flicked down Bond’s body, and Bond held his breath. He’d opened the living room windows this morning — just a crack, enough to satisfy curiosity without leaving them on full display — and he watched Q’s gaze travel from the windows, to Bond’s body, and back.

“Q…” he warned.

“How else would this end for a married couple in love?” Q asked as he rolled on top of Bond. His body radiated heat and tension, and for a moment Bond couldn’t help but give into temptation. He let his hands come to rest on Q’s lower back, then slid them upward to wrap around his shoulders. He paused, waiting for Q to object, and when he didn’t, he tangled a hand in Q’s lush hair and pulled their mouths together.

The kiss stayed chaste, lips barely parted as they brushed and nipped at each others’ mouths, but the way Q moved, sensual and slow above him, would have hidden that little detail from any outside observer. Q kept a merciful inch or two between their hips, though, and that tiny bit of space was enough to let Bond to keep his head. He wanted to crush Q to his chest, open his mouth further and taste, but there was nothing about that scenario that could end well.

Even if he wasn’t straight — and Bond had no evidence that he wasn’t — Q was a colleague, one Bond relied on in life and death situations with alarming frequency. Even more importantly, Q was one of the few people in the world that Bond trusted with everything, including his life. For all that Bond could fantasize what it might be like to have something more — a more reasonable house, a partner, a life — the reality was the he just… Couldn’t. Bond didn’t fuck his superior officers.

Or his friends.

~~~

“You are stupid,” Avivit said quietly as she and Bond watched Q laugh, head bent close to Micah's over a little blue laptop.

“Hardly,” Bond said. He watched Avivit’s nimble fingers pop ammo shell after shell into the clip for her AK 47. “Micah seems smart enough to know better.”

Avivit glanced up at Bond, eyes slitted as she studied his face. “That isn’t what I meant.”

It took a moment for Bond to catch on.

“The reason I came here in the first place is because Bishop guarantees safety for our families.” Bond removed the dust cover and the recoil spring, pulled back on the bolt carrier, and removed the assembly. “This little insular community of his is better than any safehouse I could come up with.”

“Too much of a risk,” Avivit muttered.

“Worth it,” Bond said.

Avivit pulled the assembly from Bond’s hands and held it up for inspection. “I once thought so, too.”

~~~

“This is actually a worthy mission,” Q said as Bond finished buttoning his shirt over kevlar. “Funding a school at the expense of a war criminal.”

Bond hummed and picked up his belt.

Q stood from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed and picked up Bond’s harness for his knives. Bond held out his arms and let Q slide it up his arms and over his shoulders. “How would you feel about me calling you Robin Hood?”

“Perhaps under the right circumstances,” Bond answered, smirking as Q’s fingers fumbled over the buckles.

Most of the day had been spent in the community building, Bishop’s professionals and their families all gathered together as Bishop led a rundown on the mission and expectations before serving an honest-to-god southern barbeque feast. Q, playing the part of the affectionate spouse, had his hands all over Bond in maddeningly light but methodical touches. Bond was wound up already by the time they got back to their house, and now this?

Hopefully he didn’t need any self control on the job tonight, because he was burning through it now at an alarming rate.

“I could be persuaded,” Q agreed after slipping the straps into buckles and pulling them tight.

Bond closed his eyes as Q’s hands wandered down, over Bond’s collar bones, his chest, his stomach. It was a feeble excuse, adjusting the harness, and one Bond wouldn’t let Q hide behind. He let his head tip back just the slightest bit, exposing his throat.

“I couldn’t,” Bond said.

Q withdrew his hands. He was a genius. Of course he understood.

“Three hours until you meet up with the boys,” Q said. He wandered over to the bar that Bond had made of his bedside table and starting mixing a drink. Bond hid a grimace; in his experience, Q’s attempts at cocktails was less hit and more miss. “Three more hours until you get the last bit of evidence you need.”

_Three hours until the mission would be wrapping up._

“The sooner we get the evidence we need against Micah and Hartman, the better.”

Q shrugged. “I didn’t even have time to hack the Pentagon.”

“That’s what you get for being efficient.”

“Right.” Q sat back on the edge of bed and watched as Bond retrieved his shoulder holster for his gun.

“You still haven’t told me what you want me to do with Micah and Hartman,” Bond reminded him.

“Me?” Q asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “You’re asking me?”

“You’ve spent a lot more time with them than I have. You know their skills and persuasions better than I do. You’re my superior officer here, Q. I’m just the blunt instrument.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Q said frowning.

Bond sighed and adjusted the strap. His shoulder had a permanent dip in it where the weight of the gun pulled the leather down.

If he’d ever agreed with Q, it was before. Before Vesper died. Before Emma left. Before he took a long-view look at the results of his decisions and decided he — and so many others — were better off when the choices weren’t left in his scarred, achy hands. Now he was at the end of the line. Tired. Broken. It was a relief to no longer bear the weight of that responsibility. To be only the last part of ready, aim, fire.

“Hartman will be malleable, I’m certain of it,” Q said after too quiet a moment. “Micah? It’s incredible how he managed to hide his talents, and his manipulations, from Bishop — that bugger is scary smart when it comes to managing his people — but I don’t want him anywhere near my network at MI6.”

 _Near me_ , Bond heard.

“I agree.”

“I’ve enjoyed this,” Q said after a moment of rattling glasses and pouring. When he turned back, the tumbler in his hands was filled to the brim with clear liquid, and Bond hoped that the alcohol was strong and undiluted.

“I’m delighted that your first real fieldwork assignment went so well,” Bond smirked.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Q sighed. He handed over the glass and watched as Bond took a cautious sip. Vodka tonic. Not bad. “I think you enjoyed it, too.”

“I did,” Bond conceded.

“We don’t have to stop,” Q said.

Bond stared at him.

“My house is rather nice,” Q said, “if I do say so myself. I’d need to add a bar, and another bedside table, but my basement is a great gym already. And MI6 herself can’t beat my security system.”

Bond thought about everything he was offering — casual touches, real conversations, sparring practice — and how it was free from demand of anything else. Three nights they’d shared a bed, and the most Q ever asked for was an arm around his waist. It was heady, the thought that Q wanted his companionship, his voice, his — dare he say — partnership. It was… unfamiliar. And more of an ego rush than any of his former partners’ attraction to his body had ever been.

“I should go,” he said.

Q smiled. “Good luck out there.”

~~~

“It’s… it’s like I got caught up in traffic on the freeway between towns,” Hartman said, eyes riveted to where Bishop had disappeared, one grateful glance cast at Bond for the chance of escape before he vanished. Micah lay dead next to them, blood slowly pooling under his shattered, unmoving body, but Hartman didn’t spare him a glance. “Before I even knew what was happening, I was going thirty miles an hour over the speed limit because everyone else is, just waiting for someone to get pulled over so I have an excuse to slow down.”

From the earbud, Bond could hear Q breathing and the rapid, soothing tap of his fingers on laptop keys. He’d taken Hartman’s absence as an opportunity to get a better look at Hartman’s off-duty activities, and Bond waited, hand steady, for Q to make his final decision.

“Nothing sketchy at all,” Q murmured. “He doesn’t even cheat at solitaire when Micah isn’t breathing down his neck.”

“Well?” Bond asked, waiting patiently for Q’s decision.

“He’ll be an excellent asset, 007. Bring him back.”

Bond holstered his gun and hauled Hartman to his feet. “With pleasure.”

~~~

A shrill alert and a buzz woke Bond from a sated, heavy sleep, but by now he was getting used to recognizing the various beeps and whistles that came from the workbench. Q’s gentle pat on Bond’s arm and careful disentanglement further reassured him, and he let himself sink back into the bed.

“What?” Q mumbled after a moment of fumbling with his electronics to find the right one. He tapped the device and Tanner’s voice filled the peaceful quiet of the room.

“Hartman passed his final battery of tests. He’s ready to train.”

“Well that took long enough,” Q grumped. He settled back on his pillows and started stroking Bond’s back in a slow, absent sort of way. “It’s only been four bloody months.”

Tanner sputtered, and Bond grinned into his pillow. Q’s propensity for sleepy swearing didn’t abate when his boss was on the mobile, and Bond loved it.

“Why couldn’t this have waited for a more reasonable hour?”

“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“On a Sunday,” Bond pointed out.

Tanner hung up with a huff, and Q laughed when Bond tugged him back into the warm safety of their bed.


End file.
